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Mordred Duskbringer
Voice - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Sc9TRlFX-o&feature=player_detailpage#t=3s (The first man to speak) Background Mordred Duskbringer, second child of the late Magnus, was always the favoured of the siblings by his father. His brother Roland was the first in line, however, and was learning the arts of magic - intent on becoming some sort of Scholar and discover the great unknowns of the world. The family's ancestral home was Corin's Crossing, which they had ruled over since it's creation eons ago. His father had received a crippling wound to the leg during the last of the several hundred battles in his life fighting the demonic Orcish Horde with the rest of the armies of Lordaeron. He was brought up to be a warrior just as his father wished, who had been somewhat disappointed that the eldest had turned to the eldritch arts, and was educated privately as was typical for the child of a knight - learning of mathematics, the literature of his race, history of battle and tactics. Tactics were something he excelled with and, despite being a good fighter as well, it was in this field that he truly shone. As he grew, his accumulation of knowledge and experience increased accordingly, before he was enlisted in the Lordaeron Army to further his combat skills - learning the more advanced arts of swordsmanship through field training and combat against the remaining small pockets of free Orcs whilst his brother worked in Dalaran to further his magical prowess. Roland was a good Mage, Mordred could not help but admit, yet he wondered how the man fit into their family so badly: their mother had been a Sorceress from a family of Nobility and their sister had been raised more to be a good wife and housekeeper than anything else, clearly designed for some sort of arranged marriage alliance in the future. But still, despite similarities to their mother and receiving affection from their sister, Roland stuck out amongst them - the men of the family - like a sheep amongst wolves. Years passed until Mordred reached the age of 27. His brother returned from Dalaran and was different. He looked much older, appeared frailer, and became a recluse due to his studies. He never spoke of why he had returned from Dalaran before his training was complete, yet Mordred noted he spent more time in the graveyard than he had before. His mother and sister travelled south to Stormwind as it was being reconstructed, in search of a suitor for the sister, and also to see the sights of the southern lands. In Lordaeron, however, their father had grown weaker and could no longer stand, and so the issue of succession arose between the two siblings. Apparently unknown to Roland, their father was seeking some sort of legal loophole that would allow him to name Mordred his heir, as the father had never trusted magi and could see what the so-called arts had done to his first son. The time came when the matter was discussed over the dinner table. Roland, in stark contrast to his usual silence amongst his family, grew furious over the thought that his entitlement would be taken from him. By the end of the week, both Mordred and his father became ill - stricken by disease. The father did not last long, already elderly and weak, passing away before he could conduct the business that would allow Mordred to succeed him, and at this point Roland banished his brother - explaining to the villagers that the disease was contagious. Though he was exiled and ill, he was not without allies. After a year of wandering the land, he managed to contact a lover from his past who had become a priestess several years ago. This had put an end to their relationship, though not to their feelings for each other, and she tried her hardest to rid him of the disease using cleanses, cures and even herbal remedies, but eventually discovered that Mordred's so-called contagious disease was brought about by dark magic... He howled in rage after she told him, for this made it almost certain that his brother was the one to curse both him and their father. She told him he didn't have long left and they made love that very night. That was the first night he heard the voice calling to him. Whispering of his weakness, his father's death, the supposed betrayal of his brother and kinsmen, and his impending death from the fatal disease. Over a month it called, only gently and infrequently, guiding the two lovers' travels east towards an oddly shaped treestump in a shadowed grove through vague instructions. He was feverish at that point, the priestess believing him to be hallucinating and hearing voices - but went along with it to ease his departure. Both of them heard rumours on the road about an army of Undead forming, the destruction of Andorhal, and eventually about Prince Arthas slaughtering the citizens of stratholme and vanishing to Northrend. Gazing upon the tree stump, he saw an elaborately crafted sword was protruding from the tip, wedged deeply into the wood, with runic inscriptions and several holes of different sizes arranged on the flat side of the weapon. The most notable, and alarming, part of the sword was what Mordred thought to be decoration between the blade and hilt - an impossibly lifelike carving of a mouth on each side. He looked to his right to see a figure moving towards the weapon and, oddly enough, started to feel very possessive of it. He approached as quickly as he could, limping due to his body being weakened from the disease, and managed to stop the person before they could take the sword. He was anguished, as nearing the blade pained him - filled him with dread, but he knew he must have it. As he pulled the person back, he saw the face of his hated sibling beneath the yellow cowl. He tried to punch at the figure, yet was shoved back against the treestump. His brother was asking him to stop, pleading even. Why? Why was he even here? Mordred did not care. He thought he saw glimmers of light within the surrounding trees and the stench of rotten flesh filled his nostrils. Whilst struggling with his brother he pushed back, sending the figure to the floor. As it tried to get up, he twisted back and looked towards the runeblade... reaching up to grab at the weapon with both hands. With surprising ease he pulled it from the stump as he felt hands tugging at his back. The blade went through the air above his head. He used the weight of the weapon and the momentum from the pull to twirl and slam it down upon his assailant in one heavy slash. Blood sprayed out from the fresh wound, briefly obscuring his vision, but he knew from experience that his foe would not be getting back up. After wiping the blood from his eyes, he glanced around for any sign of his lover. His eyes eventually rested on her still-bleeding corpse, split almost in half down the chest, laying at his feet. Her blood was on his sword... on his sword. Mordred raised the surprisingly light weapon with one hand, looking at his reflection in the dark metal. His eyes were wide, he noted, and then screamed in horror at what he had done. The blade fell to the floor and, as it left his grip, his strength waned again and he fell to his knees before it. He heard it again at that moment. Countless whispers and echoes slithered into his mind. They were right, Mordred realised. Soon he would perish. Without her he would not last the day... His brother still lived, and he would die here, alone - a fate he deserved, he thought. Tears flooded from his eyes. There must be a way. His quest remains unfinished. His tale has not yet been-... there is a way? He whimpered and looked towards the weapon, staring at it. The voice grew louder. His shaking hand reached forth towards it once more and after wrapping his fingers around it, he spoke aloud and felt the sense of his impending death depart from him. The weapon began to feel lighter and lighter in his hands, his body too. His legs straightened and he rose from the floor, still splashed with blood. He brought the blade up once again, to re-examine his reflection. His eyes were no longer wide, nor bloodshot. They were dull... filled with contempt, with venom and with malice. The runeblade moved almost instinctively within his hands, aiming itself at his fallen companion. The runes lit up in purple, before her body began to glow with the same ghastly hue. She rose - plucked from the earth, chest first, arms sagging forward afterwards. Her flesh began to knit itself together and, as her eyes opened, he saw that they were hollow. He smiled faintly towards her, watching her bow afterwards, and then turned to glare out of the clearing in the vague direction of Corin's Crossing. ( Will continue later ) Appearance